I’ve been prolific lately

I hate to admit it, but I smoked cigarettes for thirteen years before finally quitting cold turkey about three and a half years ago.

I don’t half-ass things.

When I decide to do something, I go all in.

If I decide I want to quit smoking, I just do it. If I decide I want to write a book in a month, I just do it.

Twenty-three days ago, I decided I wanted to write a poem every day – not every day for a month, not every day for a year – just, every day.

I want to write a poem every day, because writer’s write, and I fancied myself a poet before anything else I ever aspired to be, so I’m here now, thirty fucking five, and doing it.

There’s a power in deciding to do something and following through with it.

I have lists of things to write every day:

  • 1,000 words
  • WordPress post
  • Medium article
  • poem a day

and as I am crossing these things off my list, I’m doing even more than I’m asking of myself, because I want to.

Because I love writing.

I’ve been prolific lately, and now all I want is to stay prolific, to keep creating at this pace until what I love becomes what I am becomes what I do.

You know what I mean?





no sympathy for the lazy

I don’t sympathize
with myself when I don’t get
a bit of work done.

I punish myself
with negative thoughts and hate
what I have become.


Moving back in with my parents last week has been incredibly hard to adjust to.

I have barely had a few moments alone besides late at night when everyone is sleeping and therefore haven’t been getting enough good sleep.

Worst thing: I have been paralyzed, feeling like I don’t have a thing to say, feeling like I am failing myself over and over again every day that I don’t reach toward my goals.

It makes me feel crazy.

How can I feel like I have nothing to say?

I have everything to say, I am just scared to say anything; I am just scared of everything.

Just start, just start, just start.

I have no sympathy for myself when the only thing that’s holding me back is me.